


Taste of Poison

by Lee Carver (Zilentdreamer)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassin - Freeform, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Non Consensual, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilentdreamer/pseuds/Lee%20Carver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The spell collar was ever present, the barest tickle of a spider's passing across his flesh, magic webbing out to cover his skin in fine black lines, as intricate as lace and twice as delicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste of Poison

Wren took the steps one at a time, in no hurry to reach the broad double doors at the top, brass inlay gleaming beneath the gas light at the base of the stairs. The air was muggy, dew settling across his shoulders and sinking into his coat. Fog blanketed the street, thin tendrils twining across slick cobblestones and sliding around the black iron street lamps. The sounds of the city were muffled by the encroaching fog, the steps and the house looming overhead a separate world. A world he wanted no part of.

He reached for the brass knocker, the head of a gryphon in full cry. His hand shook, a product of nerves rather than from the night's chill. Two solid knocks, a pause, then two more. Wren stepped away, gloved hands clasped loosely behind his back. Even knowing the street behind him was empty did little to dispel the prickle between his shoulder blades. In spite of his discomfort he did not turn away from the doors, the brass gryphon's regard as cold and clinical as the real thing. If he concentrated he could sense the lingering traces of a spell having been worked into the metal, a fatal surprise lying in wait for one daring, or foolish, enough to enter without permission.

The door opened and a familiar white face appeared out of the gloom within. Pale blue eyes considered him before Lane nodded. "Mister Wren, he has been expecting you." Disappearing back into the house, Lane left the open door as a silent request to follow.

Wren stepped inside. "Good evening, Lane. I hope he has not been waiting for too long."

Lane pushed the door closed behind him. The heavy sound rolled through the entryway with its vast expanse of empty marble, no heavy rugs or tapestries to insulate against the perpetual chill or to keep sound from carrying. Lane ghosted past him, his black attire making it difficult to pick him out amongst the shadows. "Not for too long." He paused at the foot of the grand staircase. "I will escort you to the library."

Wren heard the unspoken warning and nodded stiffly before following Lane up the stairs. Kalas had not been waiting too long, but he had been waiting. That Kalas had chosen to wait in the library was a good sign. He treasured his books above all else and would never risk damaging them with his displeasure.

He followed Lane through the silent house, the gloom pressing down. The vast and empty spaces left odd echoes ringing behind them, until the familiar noises of his own stride came back distorted. Wren's fingers twitched before he forced them still, but he could not restrain the impulse to smooth his jacket, to feel the weight of the knives strapped to his forearms.

Lane stopped, gesturing to a closed door where light had crept out into the hall and flickered across the floor. His duty done, Lane offered a shallow bow, and even in the half light Wren could see his faint smile. "Have a good evening, Mister Wren." The arch tone made it clear Lane expected the opposite would happen.

Wren glared at Lane's retreating back, lips curled into a silent snarl. Again his fingers twitched, but Wren squashed the impulse, instead pushing the door open. Knocking would have been polite, but from the beginning Wren had made a game out of divesting his and Kalas' interactions of as many social niceties as possible. Each one was a minor triumph compared to the hold Kalas had on him, but it was better than nothing.

The library was warm, the chill that permeated the rest of the house beaten back by the crackling fire. Shadows danced across the bookcases, wove back and forth across the lone armchair positioned near the fireplace, a silk robe tossed carelessly over its back. The chair was empty, but a crystal tumbler on the nearby side table said that hadn't always been the case.

Once it would have been a shock to see a man sitting cross-legged in the middle of a fireplace, flames cheerfully crackling in long orange and red streamers as they climbed his body without leaving a single burn, silk pants left untouched. Now it made him wary. Kalas rarely indulged in dramatic displays of power, preferring subtlety and manipulation over brute force, especially with Wren. Kalas gave no indication that sitting in the fire was any kind of effort, reading a book amongst the flames as comfortably as if he was still sitting in his armchair.

At a guess, Wren figured that only a handful of Adepts possessed the kind of finesse Kalas was putting on display. Keeping the book from burning alone would have been a challenge. That Kalas was able to shield his body, the book, and read as well was quite frankly, terrifying. As if Wren needed another reason to fear the man. Seeing as how Kalas was well aware of his fear, Wren wondered what Kalas was hoping to get out of it.

"Close the door, Wren," Kalas admonished without looking up from his book, one finger idly turning the page. "You're letting all the heat escape."

Wren did as he was told, his gloved fingertips resting on the shining brass. The metal was warm, a breath of heat filtering through the thin leather to tease at his fingers.

Kalas noted his hesitation, green eyes unnaturally bright from using his magic. Fire danced along his hair, the long black length of it pulled into a thick braid that draped over his shoulder and pooled in his lap. "Come here, Wren. You look chilled."

Wren crossed the room, long strides bringing him along side the chair and facing the fire, as well as the man inside it. The impulse to sit was strong, but something about the way Kalas was watching him in combination with the flames that were flowing up and down his arms kept Wren standing. Kalas was in the midst of one of his little games and until Wren could figure out the rules it was best to play it safe. He clasped his hands behind his back, once again and certainly not for the last time taking comfort in the familiar press of his knives.

He was almost proud knowing that was anyone else to witness this they would either have run for the hills shrieking about demons or would have turned into gibbering messes on the expensive rug beneath his boots. As it was, Wren gripped one wrist tight enough to bruise rather than give in to the urge to run. Running was only an option if he had some where to go after all.

"Did you do as I said?" Kalas didn't so much as glance up from his book, but Wren didn't doubt he had every scathing inch of his full attention.

Wren tracked the tongues of flame as they wove up and down, yellow and orange dancing over the shape of Kalas' naked shoulders. "Yes."

Paper scraped as another page was turned. "Good." A beat of silence. "You do not approve."

"I do not like using poison." Wren shifted, aware that he was treading across dangerous ground, but unwilling to back down. Maybe it was the terrifying level of control that Kalas was displaying and with it the unspoken assurance there was nothing Wren could do in the face of it. It could have been he was tired of waiting for the noose to tighten and end it all. "It leaves room for mistakes."

Wren's spine tightened when he heard Kalas shift, the crackling thump of the wooden logs falling to pieces beneath him. "Did you follow my instructions?" A flex of Kalas' fingers closed the book and he leaned over to set it outside the fire place, well out of reach of the fire.

Watching Kalas step out of the fireplace was breathtaking, the mage shedding flames with a flick of his wrist. Wren studied Kalas' bare chest, then his back as he paced towards the chair, looking for any burns or welts, a slip in his control. All he saw was smooth, golden skin before the robe was in place, Kalas belting it closed in a few deft twists. "To the letter."

As per Kalas' orders Wren had broken into Lord Bernam's estate house, had moved through the dark halls on silent feet. It hadn't taken him long to locate the small bottle of brandy in Lord Bernam's study with Kalas' instructions guiding the way. He'd watched the white powder spill into the open bottle and vanish, melting beneath the surface. Lord Bernam would never see death strike, would carry the faint taste of taint with him into the after life. A long, slow death; nothing like the quick flash of a blade.

"I am well aware of your preference for blades," Kalas mused, folding back the sleeves of his robe so they did not fall past his wrists. "But a knife will not always reach its mark, as you well know." Kalas turned, and in the sharp curve of his smile Wren remembered a dark night in a deserted alley. The night everything changed.

It should have been a simple job; a single man, a knife to the heart. What his employer had failed to mention, not wanting Wren to back out of the deal, which he would have in a heartbeat, was that the man he wanted dead was not only a mage, but an Adept. A master of his craft. Wren had never seen it coming, his thrust deflected at the last moment, twisted round and followed by searing pain as his blade was buried hilt deep into his shoulder.

Kalas had laughed as Wren fell to his knees, green eyes burning brilliant green in the darkness shrouding the alley from the eye of passersby. Wren had expected death, praying that it would be quick even knowing death by mage was anything but. What he'd gotten was a warm hand pressed against the base of his throat and a murmured question.

"The poison will do its work, and leave no room for chance. Simple, elegant, and effective." Kalas stepped into Wren's space, slow enough to let him see it coming, fast enough to remind him there was nothing he could do about it. His finger tips brushed against Wren's coat, starting at the shoulder and sliding in towards his neck. After sitting in the fire the heat of Kalas' touch felt like a brand, sliding through damp cloth to share heat just short of pain. Thin lips stretched into a grin. "If you had thought to use poison the night of our meeting, you would not be here now, I imagine."

"So you say." Wren knew the truth. He now knew the power that coursed through Kalas' veins as he had not before, could see it bending the air like a heat shimmer. "In the end I would have ended up under your thumb, or dead."

"The price for failure," Kalas murmured. He eased the coat open to expose Wren's throat and the black band of a spell collar. Thin traceries branched off, some sliding along his shoulders while others curled down his chest and back, no man made ink able to match the pitch of magic cast upon the flesh.

"Some of my finest work I believe." Too hot fingers tracing the thick band across Wren's windpipe, Kalas asked, "Do you ever think of escape?"

Wren's hands clenched into fists and he glared at the far wall, quelling the urge to flinch from Kalas' touch. "Why do you insist on asking questions you already know the answers to?"

A distant dream, one he harbored against the prison the spell collar embodied. It was ever present, the barest tickle of a spider's passing across his flesh, magic webbing out to cover his skin in fine black lines, as intricate as lace and twice as delicate. They would stay that way, exotic lines of magic ink until a touch of Kalas' will turned them to razor wire, slicing deep and without mercy.

Not just a threat of pain and death, but isolation. Marked by a mage there was no one who would help him, not in this day and age, when a king might reign but it was magic and those who wielded it that made the rules.

Kalas' thumb pressed harder, a flare of heat and pressure that garnered a hiss of pain, drawing back Wren's attention. "I'll give you a hint, Wren." A wider smile, flames of a different kind dancing behind vivid green. "You won't win your freedom with a knife."

There was a dark promise lurking beneath those words, an offer that left a cold sweat curling down the length of his spine. Not from fear, although there was that, but because Wren knew it would be his undoing. At least with the pain and fear he knew where he stood, a tool, a blade sheathed in human skin to be wielded when Kalas chose. Pleasure would blur the lines, break him the way pain had only left him cracked, brittle at the edges but still holding strong.

Wren swallowed hard, ignoring the way the heat of Kalas touch had faded from painful to merely intense. "You're implying my being free is a possibility." Which it wasn't. He knew that regardless of what Kalas offered, it would never lead to his freedom.

"That's up to you, I believe." Kalas stepped back with one last press of his fingers, nails catching on the side of Wren's throat. "After all, freedom comes in all manner of forms, depending on how you look at it."

The burn in Kalas' eyes had nothing to do with his magic. Wren ignored it even as fear traced an icy hand down the length of his spine, a painful contrast to the heat that sparked low in his gut. He hadn't seen this coming, but then, maybe he should have. There were so many ways to own someone. Trust Kalas to come from all angles.

"I don't see much freedom from where I'm standing." Wren didn't gesture towards the spell collar, didn't need to, not with it always hovering on the edge of his awareness. "I think it's easy to talk of freedom when you don't have someone's boot resting on the back of your neck."

"You have the freedom of choice, Wren. You choose to follow my commands rather than pay the consequences of disobeying." Kalas turned to the fire, a wave of his hand sending the flames climbing higher. "Death after all, is its own kind of freedom."

Wren's smile was a tight twitch at the corners of his mouth. "So death or life living as your attack dog. Like I said, not much of a choice."

He'd been terrified when he'd first walked in, but he wasn't now, not with anger and something too deep and primal to be fear washing through his veins, the low burn of arousal making everything razor sharp in a way that threatened to cut him up from the inside. Now all he saw was Kalas' exposed back, the taunting challenge of a perfect opening and to reach it all he had to do was step into the trap. The benign but comforting weight of his daggers grew heavy around his forearms, shifted in his awareness, potential waiting to be drawn, for firelight to flash across gleaming steel.

This was nothing new, something Kalas did to test him, push him, taunt him. In the beginning Wren had fallen for it again and again, only for each attempt to be thwarted with ease. That Wren was able to carry his daggers in Kalas' presence was proof of his opinion on the matter. Wren wasn't a threat, not to him anyway.

It was something Wren had simply come to accept, a dog that had been kicked too many times, seeking respite in obedience. Yet this time Kalas had simply pushed too far. Wren's fear and hunger twisting together until the acceptance he'd fought so hard to maintain splintered, seared away by a touch of fire and the vulnerable curve of Kalas' shoulder blades beneath his silk robe.

The decision was made even as he started moving, could feel the snap of his control like the twang of a cut wire through his bones. He scooped the tumbler off the nearby table and hurled it at Kalas' head, distraction and test for latent protection spells. When Kalas flowed out of the way like the flame he'd controlled minutes before Wren was there to meet him, dagger in hand. He managed to draw a line of red across Kalas' collar bone before a sharp gesture sent him flying back, as if struck by an invisible fist.

Training allowed him to turn what would have been a hard fall into a controlled roll, but he could feel the potential bruises forming along his spine and right shoulder. Pushing out a hard breath he lunged to his feet, half expected the hum of the spell collar to ratchet up into slicing pain. When Kalas only watched him with that damnable smirk, Wren's lips stretched into a silent snarl and he darted in close for another try, pulling his second blade.

Each swing and lunge was always just off center, Kalas swaying away at the last moment or turning aside to let the blades pass by in harmless arcs of steel. It was wrong, inhuman, magic thick in the air until Wren could taste it, making him slower or Kalas faster he didn't know. Biting off a curse Wren threw years of training aside and forgoing a fatal blow swept his leg out. The hard shock of bone on bone was worth it when Kalas tumbled to the floor, eyes flaring wide in stunned surprise as he tumbled to the floor.

With a snarl Wren followed him down, dagger aimed in a downward plunge that would send it straight between two ribs and through the heart -

Only for the dagger to drop from nerveless fingers when pain sang across his shoulders and down his arms, white hot agony licking beneath his skin and caressing muscle until his insides felt like a bloody soup. Wren's head snapped back, spine arching as he struggled to breath beneath the wire thin knives of fire slicing into him, white stars bursting across his vision. He didn't fight when hands gripped his coat and shoved him over, ended up sprawled on his back as he struggled to breath around the pain, hands clawing at the ground.

The pain vanished just as a weight settled across his hips and Wren blinked up at Kalas, his mind already fogging the pain into a distant memory while his body continued to shudder.

"It's good to see you maintain some of your charm," Kalas quipped, the bastard barely out of breath. He dragged his finger across the shallow slash Wren had managed to score, blood staining the open collar of his robe. "Trying to slit my throat hmm?"

Wren closed his eyes, felt his hands continue to tremble where they were pressed to the floor. "What do you want, Kalas? Clearly you wanted this to happen for a reason. Now that I've played along can you get on with it already?"

Escape was impossible, he knew that. Kalas was too smart, always three steps ahead and leading Wren around just to watch him dance to his tune. It would be easier if he just resigned himself to this life.

Silence above him, enough to make his hair stand on end if he weren't still in shock from the spell collar. He wasn't expecting the press of lips, Kalas seizing his gasp of surprise as an opportunity to sweep his tongue between Wren's teeth. By the time Wren gathered enough wits to try and bite Kalas had already retreated, the corner of his mouth curled in smug satisfaction.

"If neither death nor blind obedience suit you, Wren, maybe you should consider the third option." With one last searing glance Kalas got to his feet. "Now get up. I have another assignment for you, and this time you'll get the chance to use your precious knives."

Wren waited a breath before climbing to his feet, unable to shake the feeling that soon, not even death was going to be an option.


End file.
